Secret Worlds (541 page)

In my imagination I’ve planned for this moment dozens of times. Run to the back exit, where the workers bury the trash. Where it reeks so no late nighters would want to hang around, sipping hard mead. We dare not take a light, but the full moon’s burgundy glow is some help. We streak to the line of gliders that the men take to the runners’ depot, where they pick up the monthly supply of food from up north. Our gliders’ engines are solar powered, engines sent from the north years ago. It’s not often that we get new parts, so mostly our boys from eighteen section patch the vehicles with abandoned machine parts to keep them running.

Thorn keeps up with me. He’s still sleepy but he almost looks eager. This makes me less guilty, and more hopeful that we’ll get out before Stiles wakes.

But the line of gliders is gone. What was I thinking? Of course, the men have flown them all to the Founders’ ceremony! And the celebration runs all night and into the dawn. Dread crashes through me. I look down at Thorn. “They’re gone. We’ve just got to run.” I take off into the desert, with Thorn at my side. This is crazy. We’ll never survive. Thorn must know that. He tugs on my arm to stop.

His eyes throw off a dim, hopeful light. He nods his round face back from where we came from.

“Thorn, we already looked. There’s nothing back there.”

He nods again, more decisively toward the side of the compound.

I take his hand, and we pad back with caution, my every nerve pricked for footsteps that don’t belong to us. Once back at the building, I still see nothing—no gliders, and not even a trash wagon with clumsy wheels. “Thorn, come on. Please talk!” Sometimes I wish he would speak to me—even a hushed whisper would do.

But all of his words have been beaten and burned out of him. I know this.

He scrambles around the corner of the building and disappears. I imagine Stiles there. To come back here was a bad mistake. When I follow, though, I see Thorn’s genius. There’s one battered glider that someone junked here. Its treads are bent in, and it’s missing its right handlebar but my good hand’s the left one so as long as the things runs … 

I hop on and reach for the key. Nowhere. “Thorn, there’s—”

He’s scrambling around by another dirty refuse pile edged up against the compound. He leans over a crooked sign that we used in one of the classrooms to hang cloaks on. It has nails on it. Whirling around, he holds a key up triumphantly.

I wave him over. “Hurry! Get on.”

Sweeping him up, I warn him to hold tight as I fire up the glider. It’s making rumbling, farting noises, which I fear will wake the guard. But in fits and starts it rises a few inches and begins to glide unsteadily over the sand. I steer it south, the opposite direction of the Founding Ceremony. We’ll cut a wide swath around, even if it takes us out of the way.

Thorn’s hands press into my sides as we pick up speed. His touch fills me with relief. He’s the one person I truly love on this earth aside from my mother. Oh, I wish I could take her; she’ll worry so much. I’ll try to send word soon. I also love my father, who graduated to the sky.

And the Fireseed God.

I disagree with how the leaders worship Fireseed, but that doesn’t mean I don’t believe. I whisper a prayer to its invisible five pointed red petals as I gaze into its home in the sky. “Help speed us away. Guide us to a safer place.”

The Fireseed God only grants part of my prayer. The feeble glider makes it fifty miles to a building labeled Depot. And then, just after we escape its smoky chamber, in a firework of explosions, it dies one last death.

Dread courses through my veins. The proprietor is jogging toward us at an awkward, gamboling clip. Must’ve heard the loud death rattle of the glider. A grizzled man with leathery skin, he also has a pendulous belly—from eating the arms of unlucky nomads? I gulp. Thorn and I are perfect fodder for his night kitchen. Plus, it occurs to me that he’ll naturally tell the founders where we are. Why wouldn’t he? Why didn’t I think of this before? He depends on them to pay for our Fireagar and clothing. He needs to remain on good terms. I consider running.

Thorn grips my cloak. Now he’s tugging on it. A warning? Too late! The man is only twenty paces away, and growing closer by the second.

“Who goes there?” he bellows, cupping his eyes with his hand, as if that will help him see us more clearly under the bleeding moon.

I know what I must do—perform in a similar way as I did with Stiles. My theatrical, seductive charm is the only tool I know against these men. I shudder. “Wait here, Thorn.”

Thorn doesn’t obey, but comes scrambling after me, still clutching my cloak. So be it. He’ll have to witness my shameful acts.

I saunter over to the man, seeing up close that he’s at least a tiny bit younger than Stiles. But still, his face is a craterland of pocks and burn marks from working in the sun. A scarf around his neck must’ve been white once, but now, is smeared with brown sweat streaks.

“What brings you out?” He studies me, and then my small brother. A knife gleams from his side holster. I’m sure he has to deal with all kinds of shady folk coming to rob him—or eat him—under the shroud of night.

Raising my mask, I force my mouth into an alluring grin. “I came out for air and—”

“Air out here, eh? It’s bad tonight—dangerous carbon dioxide reading. You like breathing fumes?”

I swallow my disgust and add, “That and … some fun.”

“Fun, ha!” The man grins back. So, I’ve amused him. Good. “Aren’t you cult people all supposed to be at your Founding Ceremony tonight?”

Cult, that word again. For a second, this catches me off-guard. He’s not a member of our Fireseed group, so how would he know what night the ceremony is? But I can’t look unnerved. I widen my smile. “It ended a little early.” I wink. “Men, you know.” With this I let out a girlish giggle. As if I know all about men and what they do.

I can improvise, if they’re anything like Stiles.

“Missy, you look pretty sweet yourself,” the depot man says. “You sure you weren’t in that ceremony—one of them
special full moon
girls?”

I shudder. Too accurate a guess for comfort. Thorn is hanging behind me, using my cloak as cover. I need to get out of here. Fast, and I need my brother to go too.

“If you give us a lift,” I start, “I’ll give you something too.”

“Oh?” His eyes move over me the way Stiles’ did, clearly taking in everything he can see and imagining the rest. “Well, now,” he says, “where would you want to go on a night like this?”

My mind is foggy from fear. I warn myself to think fast. Returning is not an option. “How about taking me and my brother west?” I suggest.

“
Where
west, Missy?”

“Anywhere west, the further, the better.”

“You don’t care where? What kind of crazy is that?” he asks. “There’s nothing much from here to hell except for miles of Skull’s Wrath Desert. What say we take a short spin to uh, get acquainted and … leave your brother right here? I’ll feed him a real nice treat. Depot Man has the goods.” He chuckles. “Meat? Sugared Fireagar? Kids like treats, right kid?”

My mouth is watering at the mention of food, and probably Thorn’s too. But Thorn’s mask is down and he’s scowling at the guy. He knows better. I give Thorn a warning look to keep his feelings buttoned up and raise the mask. We walk to the depot where I see shelves and shelves of goods. The guy must be fat from skimming the food allotments.

I can play a hard bargain. I’m used to smiling and flirting with the elders to get extra helpings of cake or avoid a lecture when I score a C on a test. I’m also used to swerving around a groping hand. I touch Depot Man’s plump arm. “I like adventures. Skull’s Wrath sounds exciting! Why not take my brother along? Feed him in your vehicle. He’s quiet. He won’t, um … interfere.” These words have their price. I’ll need an extra dose of Oblivion Powder tonight to drown out a new set of repulsive memories.

“Okay, Missy, okay. But I don’t know how far I can carry you. I can only leave the depot for so long before—”

“Take us to the next settlement?” I have no idea where the next one is, or even if there
is
one down here at all.

He doesn’t answer, but hurries to shut the depot’s heavy corrugated screens and lock them with padlocks. Then he loads us in. Larger than our glider, this one is crafted from old plane parts and other machine bits I can’t identify. It’s messy inside, with food wrappers and a jumble of wrinkled, grease-dotted clothes. All I care about now is that it has wings and flies.

Thorn settles into the backseat with a generous hunk of something that actually looks and smells like meat. I’ve only had meat a couple of times this year, and my stomach screams for it. Thorn hands me a chunk of it between the two seats.

Chewing deliriously, I gaze out in wonder at the sights—tall stone formations and cracked earth, dunes that rise and fall the way I imagine ocean waves must. I saw a photograph once. That’s how it looked but blue, the bluest ever. I wonder if there still is an ocean, and if so, if it’s still as blue. I wonder if I’ll ever find out. It would be such a beautiful living dream.

The man sets the dials to autopilot, and leans over to me. I need to honor my side of the deal, while stalling as much as I can. I allow him a light peck on my cheek. He does this softly and with more respect than old Stiles. But when his hands reach for the front of my cloak, I clear my throat loudly, and swerve away. “Not so fast,” I mirror from earlier, with Stiles. “We have time to … enjoy.”

My toes curl in their boots as we pass over skeleton-shaped formations of Skull’s Wrath desert. Under the full moon, and even with Depot Man’s glider lights, I can only see the eerie caps of the skulls glowing red.

He shifts over toward me, his big belly grazing the steering wheel. Beyond his shoulder, I see a sign of a life on the ground. Hope bubbles up cautiously.

Outlines of a large, rundown compound flicker in the burgundy shadows and a smattering of vehicles parked at all angles, next to uneven sections of a pliable, sagging roof.

“Let’s land now, please,” I beg.

“But we haven’t even started,” he protests. His hand moves to the fold in my cloak.

“Let’s explore outside!” I bray, “There’s a settlement there. Can’t you see it?”

“That place? Some crazy ex-cult lady runs that.”

“A member of my … Fireseed group?” I venture.

“No, the ZWC—Zone Warrior Collective. They did a bunch of breaks across the northern border. The head of it was the one who killed Professor Teitur.”

“What?”
The
professor Teitur? Varik’s father? The original Founder who planted the first crop in the desert? “The man we worship and pray to bring us back our Fireseed, down from the sky, to feed our people? That one?”

“Lady, you’re even nuttier than the woman I’m talking about. What is it with you cult people?”

“I don’t even know what a cult is!” I explode.

He looks at me sideways. “It’s a bunch of crazies who make up a fairy tale and get a loony guru to lead them and keep the fairytale going. Especially you Fireseed people who worship a flipping flower.”

I gape at him. The creep takes advantage by clamping his bumpy lips on mine. I try to wriggle away but he weighs a ton.

From the corner of my eye, I see my brother’s arm thrust forward, dragon toy in hand. He stabs the man in the neck with its pointy tail. I release a yelp of shocked laughter.

“You sunnofa …” Depot man rubs the wound, but then grabs me, smearing his blood on my cloak.

I yank back my head and fake a gag. ”Let me out or I’ll be sick all over you. I’m serious, please let me—” I don’t even have to fake it this time, because this whole experience on top of Stiles is truly nauseating.

“You freak, why’d I let you talk me into this?”

When I gag again the guy makes a sudden, lurching landing that makes me temporarily forget my heaving stomach.

He opens the door. I stumble out just in time and retch onto the sand. It could be that meat. God knows what that actually was—month-old boar from Restavik? My brother follows and slams the door behind him.

The guy hovers for a few terrifying minutes, probably weighing his options. There’s no way we can outrun his glider and if he decides to come get us, he’ll be much less friendly this time. He swerves down. “Get in!” he yells. “You can’t stay here in this desert.”

“I told you, I’m sick. And I need to visit this settlement, I need to talk to these folks.”

An out-and-out lie.

He looks doubtful, and I realize that he’s not all bad after all, worried about leaving us here. “Suit yourself,” he mutters and slams the door. Finally, his glider begins to whir and he’s off, dumping his troublesome cargo.

I wipe my mouth, and peer through the murky darkness ahead. Thorn is already running ahead. I clamber after him.

The compound is ramshackle but any shelter is better than none. Hurrying toward it, I see a clutter of melded structures, some side-by-side, and some built atop each other, like a child’s crude sandcastles. The compound itself is smaller than ours at home, but there’s a huge, oblong tent-like extension on the front about four times the length of the complex. Flags flutter in the dark, attached to the top of what I see now is a series of clumsily attached tarps. We’re walking toward it, but I can’t see what’s under this makeshift tent. Could it be something the people here want to protect? Or hide? Like cannibal’s cauldrons?

I’ve caught up to Thorn and taken his hand. We move closer with caution. I figure the desert folk don’t get many unannounced visitors. They’re surely armed. I only hope they’ve been fed. If I think about it any more I will die from fear, so I turn off my mind as best I can.

From about fifteen feet away, I see a rip in the side tarp that hangs down. We pull it open and peer into the dim space. “Looks like a field of plants in there,” I mutter to Thorn. “I thought plants only survived in sand caves,” I add. Anything else would perish under this heat. Thorn and I exchange glances. His eyes, even in this murky light, burn with something indefinable.

Already, he’s sliding under the tarp. Following him I reach over to a plant beyond the inner, more formidable barbed wire barricade and rub a leaf between my fingers. It’s Fireagar, a whole crop of wrinkly green leaves branching into ruddy rust. Before I can stop him, Thorn has bent up a section of barbed wire with his boot and wriggled under that too.